


Song of the Cuttlefish

by KelpietheThundergod



Series: Right Where The Ocean [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3889222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why would they lie?”</p>
<p>He turns another page, doesn't look up. Guns, points, landmarks. History. “Just had a bad feeling about these guys,” Dean says, “Better make sure we know what we're dealing with, in case their 'family' or whatever is gunning for revenge.” Sam still looks unconvinced, but he falls silent. He has his laptop on instead, but the screen is turned away just so. He has frown lines on his face, his shirt is faded yellow. Something about it unsettles Dean, but Sam cuts him off before he can ask. “Shouldn't you be sleeping more?” He looks at Dean, critically. “You know, to tone down the whole – ”, he makes a sweeping motion with one of his hands, distractedly. It somehow seems to encompass more than just Dean's arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Song of the Cuttlefish

 

 

 

 

_and in the blue._

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hunter.

What hunt? Drenched in black; the road, the house, the promise. Your home, four walls of steel. Now wood, now stone. What choice you have, what voice you speak. Now loud, now locked into a tiny box. Who hears your words? Those that haunt your dreams. Through the green, through the red. I hear your mourning. And run the road, the ceiling on your shoulders. Always, on your shoulders. Stones under the sea. Those that washed away your tears, does it wash away the past? Your home; a black road and a promise. Axis mundi, and you walk again. Your head held high.

They blind me, fighter – I hear you sing.

>

“Why would they lie?”

He turns another page, doesn't look up. Guns, points, landmarks. History. “Just had a bad feeling about these guys,” Dean says, “Better make sure we know what we're dealing with, in case their 'family' or whatever is gunning for revenge.” Sam still looks unconvinced, but he falls silent. He has his laptop on instead, but the screen is turned away just so. He has frown lines on his face, his shirt is faded yellow. Something about it unsettles Dean, but Sam cuts him off before he can ask. “Shouldn't you be sleeping more?” He looks at Dean, critically. “You know, to tone down the whole – ”, he makes a sweeping motion with one of his hands, distractedly. It somehow seems to encompass more than just Dean's arm.

Dean leans back in his chair and looks off to the side, scratches at his right forearm. Then makes himself stop when he notices what he's doing. It's not like sleeping helps, he wants to say. “Seriously, go” Sam says, eyes glued to the screen again. “I got this. And Randy said something about a vamps nest down in Louisiana. If he calls, I wake you up.”

>

The heat is swampy. The motel is blue.

The house almost collapses onto their heads, and the scent of burned paper stays determinedly in his clothes, until he gets a change to wash them all. The machine rumbles, and he watches the water get all dark, like stained with ink. He closes his eyes and breathes deep. A smell of cooled air and artificial flowers. Familiar, so many stops on the road.

Later, the pain of the burn gets washed away as well, but it was too close to the bone. He lies down. He dreams of the ocean.

>

“They're not here,” he forces out, his breath an icy cloud between them. “You have to go, and I can help you.” The ghost looks frantically back and forth between him and the things it can no longer touch, torn with indecision.

He is sad, after this one. That was one of the worst, in hell. To lose the warmth of touch, the kindness. He knows what it's like when each touch is burning, cold. When every whisper of another's skin is like running head-first into a wall. A wall of breath, a wall of fire.

Sam still has the lighter in his hand. Dean stands up, and they leave the house behind. The chime in the wind. He dreams of the ocean.

>

_2 Messages in Draft_

He hasn't send them yet. Connection, and it was so easy. They don't have to go this alone, and it felt so good. Warmth, right and left to his shoulders. He lies on his bed, unlocks the screen, hovers over the names. Watches it go dark again. Draws in a breath, unlocks it again and hits _sent._ He doesn't wanna give up on his this, on any of it. The laughter, the tears.

He lays the phone down beside him. Waits for it to chime. His arm aches, and he rubs at it until the burn dies down for now. He closes his eyes, hums under his breath. Slowly, the fear drains out of his heart. Time is running again, down that old familiar road. And it's so quiet. But even if they're not listening – it's no more just four walls of steel.

He hums under his breath, it rumbles around his heart. His door is still wide open. Another day. He gets up, pushes away from the wall. So many cliffs battered by the waves, and he has the strength to stand again.


End file.
